No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven Read online

  “How did you know?”

  At the least the priest had the good sense to abandon his false protestations. “Does it matter? You’ve summoned me and I’m here. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “I’m only the messenger.” He pulled a tissue from beneath his robe and swiped at the sweat on his lip and forehead. “His Eminence, Cardinal Jacopo Lazo, would like to see you.”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  Slash’s easy tone apparently agitated the priest further, because he shifted nervously on his feet, tugging at his collar as if it were too tight. “He wishes to speak with you about an important matter.”

  “What makes you, or him, think I will agree to an audience?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t respond well to threats, Father.” He lightly fingered the cross around his neck to drive the point home. “Maybe you’ve heard that about me.”

  The priest swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing a few times. “Sir, please. He is the president of the Vatican and he wants to see you. I have a car waiting. I’ll take you to him.”

  Slash studied the father for a long time. The priest was the first to turn his gaze away, shame and fear burning into his cheeks. “I beg you,” he whispered after a few moments. “I do as I am told. I am but a lowly servant of God.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  He kept his tone hard and unforgiving because he wanted the priest afraid of what might happen to him now that Slash had confirmed he’d sent the statue. But the clerk was not the root of the problem. That problem was a lot bigger and much more dangerous. He needed to know what Lazo wanted with him.

  The priest waited, his eyes remaining downcast until Slash finally dropped his hand from the doorjamb. “Fine. Lead the way, Father.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lexi

  “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my best friend, Lexi?” Basia sat with her elbows resting on my kitchen counter next to a large pizza box, two bottles of wine and a carafe of coffee.

  I rolled my eyes. “Is it really that unusual for me to ask you to come over?”

  “I didn’t just come over.” She wagged a finger at me. “I came over for a girls’ night—arranged, organized and planned by you. That’s huge. Momentous. Worthy of noting in the Official Book of Lexi’s Life.”

  “You’re totally overreacting.”

  “I am not.” She snapped a selfie, catching the wineglass and part of my scowling face. “Trust me, this is worth marking.”

  I poured myself some more coffee. “Fine. I initiated a girls’ night. I really appreciate you coming over, although I’m not sure it was a good idea to take you away from newly wedded bliss.”

  “Are you kidding?” Basia carefully extracted two slices of veggie pizza from the box and put them on her plate, licking her fingers. “We’ve been married a month now. There’s only so much bliss you can take, if you know what I mean.”

  I stopped in midsip, wincing. “No, no. No. You did not just put that in my mind.”

  She laughed and shoved the pizza box at me. “Besides, Xavier won’t admit it, but I know he’s secretly thrilled to have the evening off to game himself into oblivion.”

  “Lucky him,” I said, totally meaning it. Mindless gaming was a much more appealing option than spending an evening worrying whether your fiancé was in danger and if your relationship would survive it. I took a slice of pizza and ate it without setting it down on my plate once.

  Basia neatly closed up one pizza box and handed me a couple of napkins. “So, I assume the real reason for this girls’ night is you’ve discovered who sent that weird statue to you.”

  “I did. His name is Julian Koenhein. He’s a priest who works as a clerk at the Vatican.”

  “A priest? That doesn’t sound like a very priestly thing to do. Can’t be a coincidence, though. Especially after Slash takes off for Rome right after you receive it.”

  “Exactly. So, I’ve gathered a lot of information about Koenhein and his boss, but a good chunk of it’s in Italian. I need help with the translation.”

  “Sure. What do we know so far about this Koenhein guy? Who does he work for at the Vatican?”

  “An Italian cardinal by the name of Jacopo Lazo. Lazo happens to be the president of the Vatican.”

  She whistled. “Wait. The Vatican has a president? I didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t either.” I reached into a folder on the counter and pulled out two photos I’d printed, then pushed them toward her. “But apparently they have one. The first is Julian Koenhein, the clerk. The second photo is Lazo.”

  Basia studied Lazo’s photo. “I think I’ve seen this guy on television.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Apparently he’s pretty important.”

  Basia took another bite of pizza and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Okay, so why would the clerk of the president of the Vatican go to all the trouble of summoning Slash in a really bizarre, threatening way by sending you an statue from the Congo?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea. Obviously it was a message of some kind. Slash knew what it meant, but he wouldn’t tell me. Shortly thereafter, he left for Rome. I think by sending it to me, someone wanted it made clear that if Slash didn’t return to the Vatican, something might happen to me.”

  “Wow.” Basia frowned. “Priest or not, I don’t like this clerk, and possibly not the Vatican president either.” She paused. “I hope lightning doesn’t strike me for that.”

  “No worries, I happen to agree with you. Anyway, that’s where I’m at. I’ve collected data on Koenhein, Lazo, political relations between the Vatican and the Congo, and everything I could find on the nkondi statue. I’d like you to review the documents on Lazo and Koenhein in Italian to see if something unusual pops. I’ve got Grayson reviewing the international developments between the Vatican and Congo relations for the past ten years. It’s a lot of material in an area that’s not my skill set, so I need some additional eyes on all of this.”

  “Well then, let’s get to work.”

  I handed Basia the papers and a pad of paper and pen for her to jot notes as needed. We ate pizza and drank coffee and wine while we worked, mostly in silence.

  I was deep into reading the English-language sources about the life of Jacopo Lazo when the doorbell rang. I exchanged a worried glance with Basia.

  “You expecting someone at nine o’clock?” she asked.

  “I’m not.” I pulled out my cell phone and checked the front door camera on the security feed. It was Grayson, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and sandals.

  “It’s Gray.” I pocketed my phone. “What’s she doing here?”

  I disengaged the alarm and opened the door. “Hey, Gray, what’s up?”

  She didn’t waste time with any simple niceties. She stepped across the threshold, her expression serious. “Lexi, I’ve got something important to show you.”

  “Well, by all means, come in. We’re having a girls’ night...sort of. Basia is in the kitchen. We’re going through some documents while eating pizza and drinking wine—that’s my version of a girls’ night. There is plenty of pizza left, so please help yourself.”

  Basia scooted around the counter to give Gray a quick hug. Gray declined the pizza and wine. She seemed worried and that triggered my anxiety. What could be so important that she would drive over at nine o’clock at night without calling me first? The pizza, wine and coffee suddenly rolled around my stomach.

  Gray glanced at the documents we had spread out and then pushed them to the side, pulling a laptop out of the bag over her shoulder, setting it on the counter and opening it up. She perched on a stool as she logged in, then tapped some commands before pulling up a document.

  “Lexi, you tasked me with finding out what I could about relations between the Vatican and the Congo over the past t
en years,” she said. “Interestingly enough, there’s been a lot of activity on that front.”

  I pulled a stool around the counter on one side of her and sat while Basia scooted closer to her on the other.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “About ten years ago a man by the name of Harun Apeloko overthrew the government in the Congo and seized control. He implemented martial law and began executing anyone who disagreed with him.”

  “Typical despot,” I muttered.

  “Exactly. The country plunged into worse poverty while Apeloko built himself lavish palaces and hoarded cars and jewels. It wasn’t long before the immense suffering of the people sparked the protest of the Vatican, that has deeply entrenched roots in the country. Apeloko certainly wished to silence the bishops who spoke out against him, but by doing so he threatened his tenuous grip on power. Christian institutions were highly revered by the people and acted as a social and cultural stabilizing force. Removing the bishops would have certainly caused riots and protests. So, instead Apeloko was clever. He placated the population by meeting regularly with the clergy in his country, as well as entertaining Vatican representatives and presenting himself as aligned with them. He pretended to consider progressive concepts like elections and representation.”

  I took some more milk from the fridge and added it to my coffee. “When you say ‘pretend,’ I take that to mean he never really considered them.”

  “He did not,” Gray answered. “The Congolese bishops, Vatican priests and local representatives wrote and drew up an accord with a blueprint for free elections, a peaceful transfer of power and other democratic measures, then presented it to Apeloko. Several human rights groups and other governments signed the accord, praising the plan. But there was a problem.”

  “Which was?” I stuck my coffee mug in the microwave and nuked it for forty-five seconds.

  “Apeloko never signed it, nor made any public statements indicating he would abide by it. The situation dragged on for at least two years before the matter came to an end.”

  “What kind of end?”

  “Apeloko and his nineteen-year old son were assassinated in a mysterious attack inside the palace. A Vatican priest who was with them nearly died as well.”

  I removed my mug from the microwave, carrying it carefully to the counter. “What happened?”

  “Apeloko, his son and the priest were poisoned while in his personal study. Two guards who were stationed outside the room heard nothing. No one came in and no one came out of the room. Somehow, the priest who was inside was able to open the door to let security in before collapsing near death. When the guards rushed inside, Apeloko and his son were already dead.”

  “They didn’t catch anyone?”

  “They did not. But they think the assassin and the son both came in through a previously unknown secret passage into the study. Apeloko’s security apparently knew nothing about it.”

  I thought it odd that the security detail knew nothing of the passage, but perhaps it wasn’t so outrageous considering despots were typically unhinged and obsessively paranoid. “Maybe the son wanted to kill the father to take power for himself, so he got help doing so. He opens the hidden passage to a killer to get the job done. Instead, the assassin wants the power for himself or someone who paid him more. So, he takes them both out and the priest is collateral damage.”

  Basia looked at me in shock, perhaps concerned I’d so rapidly formed such a morbid scenario. It kind of surprised me, too, but I’d have to wonder about the state of my mind at another, more private, interval.

  An intrigued expression on her face, Gray entertained my scenario. “It’s possible, but no one knows for sure. It could have been the assassin kidnaps the son, forces him through the passage into the room, and then poisons everyone once he was in the study.”

  “What was the priest’s accounting of what happened?” I asked. “The one who survived.”

  “Apparently the priest was permanently injured—mentally incapacitated from the poisoning—and unable to tell investigators anything useful.”

  “That’s horrible,” Basia said. She’d pushed aside her food, placed her elbows on the counter. “Seriously.”

  “But none of it makes sense from an operational standpoint.” I frowned, working it out in my head. “Why poison them? Why not slit their throats or snap their necks? Do something fast and permanent.”

  Basia held up a hand. “Please, Lexi, I just ate.”

  Gray, however, seemed interested by my train of thought. “That’s a good question, Lexi. As far as I can see from the open source material, there are no easy answers.”

  I sorted through the possibilities. “Okay, then let’s postulate. For example, how did the assassin keep three people quiet while forcing them to take poison?”

  “Hard to say.” Gray rolled her shoulders. Not surprisingly, she was much more comfortable discussing assassination methods than Basia. “The prevailing theory is the priest had already been knocked out and the assassin put the poison in his mouth while he was unconscious. Somehow, the priest came to after the assassin had left and was able to raise an alarm before passing out again.”

  “That’s just bizarre.”

  “Right?” Gray reached into her pocket and pulled out a thumb drive. “But that’s not all I found, Lexi. You need to check this out.” She plugged the drive into the laptop and angled the screen toward me. “By the way, this isn’t classified information. I found it on my own. Just so we’re clear.”

  “We’re clear,” I said. “And appreciative. What is it?”

  “A BBC video of a news report on the afternoon of September 17, the day of the assassination.”

  I leaned over closer to the screen as the video played. It was grainy footage of three priests getting out of a car in front of the palace steps, greeting a man I assumed was Apeloko. The four men talked for a moment with armed security forces ringing them, until Apeloko motioned they were all to enter the palace. Apeloko pulled aside one priest, putting an arm around him, giving him a favored position at his side as they walked first toward the palace. The other two priests followed behind. For a brief moment, the priest at the president’s side glanced over his shoulder, directly at the camera. Gray froze the clip and enlarged the frame by three hundred percent.

  “So, this is the interesting part,” she said, tapping her finger against the screen.

  My breath caught in my throat. The priest in the photo was Slash.

  Chapter Twenty

  Slash

  Slash wasn’t in the habit of terrifying priests, but today he was in an unusually poor mood.

  After they passed security, where he was required to leave his phone and laptop, they walked through the echoing corridors of the Palazzo del Governatorato. Father Koenhein carefully kept his distance. Every time he dared to glance at Slash, he’d cringe at the look he’d receive in return. Once they reached a doorway at the same time, and Slash slapped a hand on the door before opening it. The priest jumped back so violently, he nearly tripped.

  Any other time, he might have been amused, but he wasn’t. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be dragged back into a life he thought he’d left long ago. A quick glance at his reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls showed an unshaven jaw and dark circles under his eyes. They passed through one more checkpoint before Father Koenhein led him into the president’s office. Slash was instructed to wait in a chair while the father went through one more door, closing it behind him.

  Minutes later, he exited, sweeping his hand toward the room. “His Eminence will see you now.”

  Slash entered the room, met by Cardinal Lazo, dressed in an ordinary black cassock with a heavy silver cross around his neck. Lazo was a tall man—possibly an inch and a half taller than Slash—and had thick black hair peppered with gray. He stood rigidly with the confidence, or perhaps arrogance, o
f his station. His pretend intellectualism and an ill-hidden disdain for those he considered beneath him were just a couple of the reasons Slash, and many members of the sodalitium pianum, had always disliked him. Lazo used his position as a cardinal and the president of the Vatican as a means to serve his own ambition, rather than the good of the flock. He’d derailed several worthy progressive initiatives—especially those supporting the poor—hiding behind the excuse of fiscal responsibility. That, of course, hadn’t stopped Lazo from spending exorbitant amounts of money on anything that involved his personal comfort or security.

  Lazo remained a dangerous man for many reasons. In addition to the significant power he wielded, he was the key to several important Vatican coalitions, including ones he’d formed within the Foreign Office, the finance department, and a group including several important Italian bishops, minus Father Armando. All of which, Slash was certain, added up to a carefully orchestrated plan to ensure Lazo one day ascended to the papacy.

  Regardless, Slash had no intention of playing the game on Lazo’s terms, whatever the game might be. But he had to factor in the variables.

  “I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice.” Lazo spoke with a slight accent from the southwest region of Campania near Naples, where he’d been born. Father Koenhein discreetly disappeared into the outer office, closing the door behind him.

  The cardinal held out a hand, clearly expecting Slash to take it or kneel. He did neither. President of the Vatican or cardinal, he would never kneel to this man. Respect and devotion was earned, and Lazo had done nothing to deserve his.

  Displeasure flashed in the cardinal’s eyes as he dropped his hand before walking toward a small refrigerator. “Can I offer you a refreshment? Coffee? Chilled water?” His voice remained light, unfailingly polite, but Slash could hear the steel in the undercurrents.

  He didn’t respond. Better Lazo understood from the start he would not be malleable to his demands. Lazo took two bottles of water out of the refrigerator anyway, and handed one over. Slash accepted it, but offered no thanks.